


The Bones of You

by Lisztful



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-14
Updated: 2010-03-14
Packaged: 2017-10-07 23:34:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisztful/pseuds/Lisztful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur has been fascinated by Merlin for a long while, but is too afraid to do anything about it. That is, until Merlin takes matters into his own hands (so to speak).  Also, there are bandits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bones of You

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from an awesome song by Elbow. Well actually it _is_ an awesome by Elbow. This story was written for Kinkelot's hands theme, and this prompt comes from Dayari, though I tweaked it a bit. So, this is for you, Dayari, I hope you like it!

Arthur has always been aware of Merlin's hands. There isn't anything unusual about them, not really, they're just hands. But something about them is completely fascinating, and Arthur finds himself drawn to them whenever Merlin is near. Actually, as a whole, Merlin is a quantity that Arthur ends up thinking about a lot more frequently than he really feels comfortable with, and everything that Arthur has learned about Merlin, all those secret qualities that he doesn't really share, these are all visible in his hands.

He has strength that he really oughtn't to have. It hides in his narrow build, the too-flat planes of his stomach, and is not apparent in the fine lines of his neck. It shows in his hands, though, solid and firm when he passes Arthur his sword, but gentle when picking herbs for Gaius, and quick and nimble and sure on shirtlaces when he dresses Arthur for the day. He may trip, stumble, knock things over, but Merlin's hands are always clever, always strong, always gentle. Always him.

These thoughts, these realizations, are for the most part untroubling. It's strange that this interest in Merlin's body, in his hands, is something that drives Arthur to distraction, but his mind is ever more quick and curious than people give him credit for. He is brilliant at strategy, after all, and sometimes that's just about seeing those tiny things that other people take for granted.

Sometimes he sees Merlin's body as a landscape, hills and valleys and long, pale plains stretching out forever into the horizon. His hands, the fine bones of them, are almost bridges, connecting those things he touches to the rest of him, the soft linens he folds, pressing the heels of his hands into them as Arthur watches and acts wretched and generally foolish.

So, these thoughts don't bother him, not exactly. Yes, he notices Merlin. It makes sense, since they're together almost constantly. What's troubling is the way that the landscape metaphor always gives away to Arthur thinking about how much he'd like to lead a campaign over that body, how he knows it well but would like to know it even better. How he wants to feel Merlin clutching him, fingers digging into his shoulders, his hips, fingernails biting into him, grasping, pressing, twisting. Yeah, that's where it starts to feel a little weird.

He doesn't know when he first starts thinking of Merlin like this, but he does remember the exact moment in which it all sinks in. They're at a feast, some generic event for a visiting dignitary, and Arthur is half dozing off, seated between the Archduchess from the next kingdom over, and a lord he's never met, one Guibert of Umbria. It's chicken for dinner, still on the bone, and Arthur is holding his drumstick in an ever more lax grip as he slowly drifts off.

It isn't a shock when he drops it, that's sort of been the chicken's destiny ever since Guibert started telling stories about his kingdom's fascinating farming technology, but it is a shock when Merlin swoops in and catches it. He presses it back into Arthur's palm, wrapping his fingers around Arthur's like he's forgotten what to do.

"Like this," Merlin says, his tone lightly mocking. "You know, you're supposed hold onto it, not throw it around."

His hands are slippery with grease, and his fingers feel surprisingly strong over Arthur's. "Not going to help me eat it?" Arthur asks snidely, but instead of the expected barb, Merlin just shrugs and says mildly, "If that's what you'd like."

His breath is warm against Arthur's cheek, his tone too casual, and in that moment it all connects and it's as though Merlin's slick fingers are wrapped around his cock, instead of just his hand. The room tilts dangerously, because sometimes you don't know if someone else wants you, but sometimes you do, and Arthur is sure that Merlin knows exactly what Arthur wants, and he wants it too. He wonders absently whether he's going to be sick.

"What I want?" he replies absently. "More wine," he says, and as Merlin's hand slips away, he adds, "Please." It's almost a whisper, but he thinks Merlin hears, understands.

So after that, he knows. The first few moments are terrifying, because it's one thing to harbor an idle attraction, and another still to think that someone else is having those thoughts and that things could actually happen, new, bright, frightening things. It's something that feels as though it could be very big, except somehow it isn't. Arthur is actually very busy, training and sitting in on council sessions and presiding over the local squabbles and debates, and so he doesn't really have the time to devote to completely falling apart. He spends a lot f time furiously jerking off, he feels his breath go fast whenever Merlin is near, and gradually, he begins to be able to think, "I'm in love with Merlin."

After that, it isn't exactly scary anymore, just frustrating, because Merlin definitely knows, but maybe doesn't know that Arthur knows he's aware of it, doesn't know that Arthur's maybe hopefully ready and definitely interested. In the meantime, Arthur watches and loves Merlin, the sort of quiet, all-consuming love that catches up to him at unexpected moments, settling heavy and deep in his chest.

It makes him hunger for the chance to look at Merlin, to drink his fill of every bit of him, to just stare until he's got Merlin burned into his mind and can call him back whenever he wants. There are always people around, though, so he settles for quick, furtive glances, and shifting brushes of arm or leg as they pass in the audience hall. Merlin doesn't comment on any of it, but he also doesn't pull away, which is a small consolation. Still, Arthur feels like he's starving, the paucity of these glimpses just enough to show him how much more he wants.

Then, finally, he has his chance. Lord Guibert requests a hunting expedition, and Uther sends Arthur off to lead it. It's a small party, just Arthur, Guibert and Merlin, as well as a pair of Guibert's attendants, sniveling men who run circles around him while voicing their obsequious appreciation of his every move. Guibert's not as bad, although he has little appreciation for the horses or the hunt, which leads Arthur to believe that he is basically without merit.

The trip is set to last between a week and a fortnight, depending upon how successful it is. Merlin spends most of the first day complaining about the irritating servants, and swearing somebody isn't going to survive if he has to share a tent with them.

"Fine," Arthur relents, after an afternoon of easy torture. "You can share my tent, as long as you promise not to snore."

"You're the one who snores," Merlin fires back, but his tone is relieved, and his hands are lighter on the reins than they've been all day. That sends a shiver through Arthur, and he isn't even sure why. Things are happening, he thinks. Finally.

As agreed, Merlin crawls into Arthur's tent after supper. Guibert's eyes widen almost comically, but Arthur stops him short with a glare. It's not unheard of, to share one's bed in this manner, and this man has nowhere near enough rank to be allowed to comment on it, whether it's true yet or not. Arthur wants it, hopes and longs for it, so there's really not much point in pretending to feel differently. He's not a great actor, mostly preferring to, you know, swing a sword or a mace or something at people who aren't happy with him.

Arthur lingers by the dying fire for a long while, before finally ducking into the tent, his pulse quick and loud. When he finally does go on, Merlin is already half asleep. "Hey," he say thickly, when Arthur sits down to pull off his boots, an he looks soft and warm and almost innocent, the lingering seriousness that he sometimes carries deep in his features entirely gone. He reaches up to rub at his eyes and Arthur track the motion greedily, his cheeks warming as Merlin gazes up at him through half-closed eyes.

"Come to bed?" Merlin asks drowsily, and Arthur's heart lurches at his guileless tone, his hands going clumsy as he tugs off his jerkin and loosens the ties of his shirt. He feels too big, hunched over in the tent as he tries find some proof that Merlin is asking what it sounds like he's asking, and for a moment it seems like it would almost be easier to just stay on the other side of the tent.

Then Merlin is sitting up and pulling Arthur down onto the bedroll, tugging at him until he's under the top layer. "You're thinking too loudly," Merlin says, all soft and lazy. "Yes, I want this. But everyone would be able to hear us, and you don't want the minions getting nasty, they aren't very nice. Lets just sleep for now, and we'll have a proper start later, okay?"

"You can't talk to me like that," Arthur says, only his voice comes out breathless and almost frightened, and he's already leaning close to press his face into the crook of Merlin's neck.

"Shut up," Merlin says amiably, and twists his head back to kiss Arthur, a soft, chaste press of his lips that somehow sends a vast shiver running through Arthur's body. Merlin wriggles around until he's tucked into the curve of Arthur's body, sighing shakily as they fit themselves closely together. "Be happy I didn't make you be the little spoon, he says, pressing his shoulder up as Arthur drops a kiss there, right over the bone.

"Don't be ridiculous," Arthur says, his lips brushing the base of Merlin's neck. It's an amazing combination of heady desire and soft, sleepy contentment, and he's unfathomably grateful to Merlin for understanding that he needs time for this, no matter how much he wants it. "You could never be the big spoon," he says, fighting to pick up the thread of the conversation.

"I'm taller," Merlin says.

"Yes, but," Arthur whispers, wrapping his hands around Merlin's narrow middle. "I can do this."

"As long as it makes you happy," Merlin says, in a dizzyingly sweet voice. "Now go to sleep."

Merlin dozes off almost immediately, looking completely happy and satisfied. Arthur finds that he can't sleep, but he doesn't feel restless, just warm and all full up with the feeling that Merlin has so easily accepted not only his desire but his hesitance, has given him something that he can understand so much more easily, the desire to keep Merlin safe.

He wraps his hands around Merlin's, feeling the fine bones under the pads of his fingers, and it's so much more vivid than all the times he's stared at those same hands, the dips and rises feeling so much more vast than they look. There's the smoothness of his fingernails, the solidness of knuckles, the callous left by sword-practice, the fine, delicate span of his wrists. There's something so fragile about him, and yet so very powerful, and Arthur is struck by it, the way Merlin's wrists feel so tiny, encircled by Arthur's hands, and yet so very solid and capable. It's a thought that sends warmth all through Arthur's body, and he keeps his hands there until he drifts off, wrapped around and over Merlin's hands and pressing them against the warm, steady beat of his heart.

Arthur comes slowly awake to the sound of Merlin whispering his name, but it's not nearly as pleasant as it seems like it ought to be. For one thing, something awful is digging into his back, all down the length of it, and for another, his head feels fuzzy and thick, as though he's had too much to drink or been knocked about with the flat of a blade. That's when it starts to click, and Arthur registers that what's under his back is actually what's behind him, a tree trunk, and that his wrists are bound, and he's been hit with either a spell or a weapon.

He manages to force his eyes open, squinting blearily over, and there's Merlin, tied up next to him and wearing a worried look over the enormous bruise blossoming on his jaw. "Thank god," he hisses "You wouldn't wake up there for a while."

"What happened?" Arthur mumbles. His mouth feels half-numb, and it's difficult to form words.

"Bandits," Merlin whispers back. He seems to be in slightly better shape than Arthur, no visible injuries besides where he clearly took a fist to his face. "They've got a sorcerer. I haven't seen him but I heard them talking about it."

"Oh," Arthur says. "Shit."

After that, nothing happens for at least an hour. Arthur stays still, slowly regaining control over his muscles, and he welcomes the uncomfortable spasms as his limbs awaken. He still feels groggy, but at least he can form a coherent thought, and Merlin has assured him that he's fine at least six or seven times, which is almost enough for Arthur to sort of believe it.

Merlin's counted only a small group of people, four bandits and the sorcerer. They each have their own horse, though, which indicates they're fairly good at what they do. The strength of the knots keeping Arthur tied to the tree are also a testament to their skill. Notably absent are Guibert and his servants, but Merlin thinks they're okay, trussed up somewhere out of their line of sight.

After an indeterminate period of time, Arthur hears the rustling of a tent flap from somewhere behind him, followed by light footsteps. The tread leads him to expect a light, slender person, but instead it's someone so small they could only be a child, and oh god, it's Mordred.

"Hullo," Mordred says quietly, and there is something strange and heavy and old threaded through his voice. "I'm sorry about this, Emrys." His tone is resigned, regretful.

"Mordred," Merlin says, and it's almost a whisper. "What've you done?" He looks so suddenly broken that Arthur can't stand to watch him, has to turn away and try not to show how unnerved he is by the harsh blue of Mordred's eyes.

"I had to make you choose," Mordred says. "You've made too many bad choices, and it's all because of him." He points, and Arthur realizes belatedly that Mordred's talking about him. "Save him, or save yourself," Mordred says. "But know that you're just as dead even if you do help him."

"Don't do this," Merlin says heavily. "You could run. We wouldn't chase you. Take your men and go."

"It's too late for that, Emrys," Mordred says, and then a dagger is hovering before him, spinning drunkenly as though suspended from an invisible thread. Mordred holds up his tiny hand and hisses, something sibilant that barely sounds like words but must mean something, and then everything seems to have gone very slow as the dagger stills, pointing straight at his heart.

"I'm sorry," Merlin says, and strangely it's to Arthur, not Mordred. Then his bindings are falling away in a blaze of light, and he's got a hand outstretched, the fine bones pressed out and prominent as he chants, and the words sound very old and deep, dragged out of the depths of his chest, and the knife veers off crazily and goes careening off to his left, burying itself in another tree trunk with a sharp thud.

"I'm sorry," Merlin says again, and then another motion of his perfect hand, white with tension, and Arthur sees ropes shooting upward and slithering off behind him, their destination unclear until he hears muffled shouts. "The bandits," Merlin says grimly, and with another hand wave, draws the dagger out of the tree and uses it to cut Arthur's bindings.

"Wait," Arthur says dizzily. "Mordred. He's gone."

"Yeah," Merlin says quietly. "I thought he might do that. He's powerful. I couldn't catch him even if I'd wanted to choose that over you. And I didn't."

"Oh," Arthur says quietly, and then he's lurching forward, dragging Merlin into his embrace and fitting their mouths together. "You chose me," he whispers against Merlin's lips, and Merlin makes a shocked sound and leans back, whispering, "Aren't you angry? I wanted to tell you."

"You're-" Arthur tries helplessly. "You saved me. You- your hands. Your hands are unbelievable. They're magic."

Merlin blushes, the color high on his cheeks, and then he kisses Arthur back with bruising force, whimpering as Arthur drags him up against his body pushes him back against the same tree to which Arthur was so recently trussed.

The feeling is like nothing else he's ever known, worry and fear and relief and arousal all swirling together until he feels half dizzy. He could stay here like this forever, he thinks, but then Merlin chuckles and sighs and ducks his forehead against Arthur's chest. "We've got a lot of bandits to deal with," he says, grinning ruefully. "And I imagine the lord isn't too happy. Plus I'd really like there to be a bed in our future."

"I'm the crown prince," Arthur says. "If I want a bed, I get a bed."

"That's one of my favorite things about you," Merlin says, pulling away with a regretful sigh. "Come on, lets just deal with this and get home. I'll leave the bandits here, they won't get out of that any time soon."

"Okay," Arthur says, feeling as though maybe Merlin has kissed him stupid, and he keeps their hands laced together as he leads them to the tent.

Inside, there's a pile of neatly trussed bandits, looking around wide-eyed and struggling fruitlessly at their bonds. Arthur just grins at them, wide and feral, and steps around them to find the unconscious lumps of Guibert and his minions.

"Still asleep," Merlin says, sounding faintly pleased.

"They don't have nearly our constitution," Arthur says smugly. "Come on, we've got to drag them to the horses. Properly," he adds, as Merlin's fingers twitch. "They could wake up at any moment."

As it turns out, they don't, though Arthur's confirmed that they're all alive and largely unharmed. They make it back to the castle, Arthur leading two horses and Merlin one, and Arthur deposits Guibert in his chambers and calls for a few servants to attend to him. It's so far from the norm as far as crazy insane things that threaten his life on a normal basis that he doesn't even bother to report to his father. That can happen tomorrow, because Merlin is already in his bed, and suddenly Arthur's taking two steps at a time, dashing up to meet him.

He's not disappointed, when he slips into his room, Merlin's perched on the edge of his bed, barefoot and unjacketed. He looks entirely kissable, so Arthur crosses the room in three great steps and presses their mouths together, licking past Merlin's lips and dragging his fingers up through Merlin's hair.

"Does this mean you're finally ready?" Merlin asks fondly. "I've been waiting for ages, you know. You've been driving me mad."

"You?" Arthur says. "I had to have a crisis and be driven crazy. Also don't make fun of me, I still feel fragile about this."

"Aw," Merlin says. "You're really adorable."

"It would be in poor taste to mention that I can send you to the stocks at this point, but I'm still thinking about it," Arthur says, leaning in to bump hips with Merlin. He really is taller than Arthur, so they align nicely, Merlin sitting and Arthur standing in front of him.

"I could make the stocks disappear?" Merlin tries, leaning forward to press kisses over Arthur's collarbones. It feels good, shockingly good, and Arthur makes a noise that is half a groan and leans into it, dragging off his shirt to give Merlin more space to work with.

"I'd just order someone to make more," Arthur pants. "Plenty of carpenters in the village."

"Damn. Come up here," Merlin says, and he tugs on Arthur's arm, a smile quirking his lips. "On second thought," he says musingly, "Let me." Arthur nods, and then his head is spinning a little because somehow he's on the bed and Merlin on top of him, panting as their cocks align. "Yeah," Merlin mutters. "I like you like this," and Arthur shudders, because Merlin seems to know what he's doing, and it's amazing, being able to just let go and not worry about doing things right.

Merlin laughs shakily and leans forward, his hands dragging over the length or Arthur's torso. "God," he mutters. "You're so- I, god. Arthur flushes red, resigning himself to the fact that he's going to always let Merlin do whatever he wants, no matter how much it embarrasses him, because he's Merlin and Arthur loves him.

"Take off your shirt?" he asks, and Merlin grins and pulls it over his head, tossing it off somewhere behind the bed. "What now?" He asks cheekily, and he's grinning, though Arthur can feel the pulse of his erection, proving that he's not so calm either, beneath it all.

For a moment he can't do it, and he squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his fists. But then Merlin's smoothing his hands over the tension in Arthur's shoulders and leaning in to kiss him, and all the discomfort and uncertainty lift away, leaving Arthur with the clarity of wanting and knowing he's allowed to. "Touch me," he says, and Merlin reaches down and cups Arthur's cock through his trousers, squeezing gently before letting go to unlace the trousers and pull out Arthur's cock.

He's already hard, completely, painfully hard, and at the feeling of Merlin's fingers skating over the length of him he has to turn away and school his breathing, chanting not yet not yet not yet in his head until it blends together into raw syllables. Merlin's chuckling and making raw, intoxicating noises as he strokes Arthur, head to base and then back up, his fingers so long and smooth and nimble. "What else?" he whispers, and Arthur feels the urge to scream.

"That's good," he gasps. "That's amazing."

"I know," Merlin says matter-of-factly. "It feels amazing doing it to you. But you want something else, I can tell. It's okay, whatever you want, you just have to tell me." His hand slows to an agonizing pace, too light and too slow, and Arthur groans in frustration and bucks up into it ineffectually.

"Come on," Merlin coaxes. "Just tell me what you want."

"Okay," Arthur chokes out, and he doesn't know how he could be blushing any more than he already was but somehow it's happening, and his face feels fever hot. "Your fingers," he grits, "I want your fingers in me."

"Oh," Merlin says, sounding pleased. "Oh. He goes back to stroking Arthur's cock properly, and Arthur presses up into it, not even bothering to stifle his appreciative moans anymore. He's expecting it, but Merlin's finger is still a shock, spit slick and pressing up against him from behind, feeling impossibly large and like it'll never fit inside him.

"Relax," Merlin whispers, and miraculously, it works, because then Merlin's finger is pressing inside of him and it feels strange but also wonderful. It's an alien sensation, but it's also Merlin's finger, and he's spent enough time studying Merlin's hands to know pretty much everything there is to know about them. It feels shockingly similar to that, the feeling of Merlin's knuckle, his fingertip, Arthur squeezed tight all around it. Merlin drags his finger in and out a few times, a slow, gentle rhythm, and okay, Arthur likes it.

He's frankly amazed that he's lasted even this long, and once Merlin gets two fingers inside him and tightens the ring of his hand around Arthur's precome slick cock, it's only moments before Arthur's shooting over Merlin's hand and onto his chest, shouting as Merlin's fingers twist inside him, grazing over that spot that he has recently become acquainted with, the little place that makes him see stars and understand exactly what is so good about this, about having Merlin be inside him like this.

And that's the thing, he thinks, as he gasps his way through the aftershocks, rubbing a shaking hand over Merlin's erection as Merlin comes, almost unbidden. It felt incredible, but that wasn't what it was, not exactly. In the end, it was knowing Merlin and loving him, and trusting him to take Arthur's fears and uncertainties and gently dispose of them, to empty him out of all his doubts and fill him back up with Merlin's love and trust and happiness. And after all this time, after all this looking and wondering and hoping, it's fitting that it's Merlin's hands that have brought them to this place. Merlin's hands that hold him close, that weave magic from the air to protect him, Merlin's hands that fuck him hard and then soothe him all over again, this is what he's been wanting, all along, and now, looking over at Merlin's sleepy grin and pressing a kiss upon his forehead, Arthur knows that it's finally his.


End file.
